"KILL ALLEE PILATE."
"This will be your station, Lynn," said Blunt as they passed along
inside the thickest wall till they reached the bale bastion, where the
manager halted. "You take that wide loophole shelter yourself at the
side; there's a capital place for resting your rifle, and with such a
steady support, and as you will be able to cover so wide a sweep of the
enemy's advance, I shall expect you to make a good score."
"A good score!" said Stan in a tone of voice full of disgust. "Any one
would think I was going to shoot at a target."
"At a good many targets," said Blunt.
"Yes, human beings. You don't really mean to say you want me to kill as
many of those unfortunate wretches as I can?"
"Unfortunate? They haven't proved to be unfortunate until they are
badly beaten. Yes, that is what I mean. I want you to kill or disable
every one of the enemy at whom you can get a shot."
"And do you think I could be so bloodthirsty?"
"I think you know us all pretty well here, and would be sorry to see us
cut to pieces by a set of savages who are coming down in full force to
the attack."
"Cut to pieces!" said Stan contemptuously.
"Yes," continued Blunt sternly; "cut to pieces--literally. I am making
use of no high-flown figure of speech. I know from what I have heard
and seen that these piratical Chinamen, after shooting down the people
they attack, finish by spearing or beheading every fallen man; and then
the braves, as they call themselves, go round with their big razor-edged
swords and hack their victims to pieces."
"Ugh!" ejaculated Stan, with a shudder of horror.
"I think you will see that it is better for you to help us to the best
of your ability with your rifle and bring down as many as possible.
Mercy is a fine thing, and I dare say I should be content with taking a
man prisoner who dropped upon his knees and threw down his arms; but
Chinese pirates neither drop upon their knees nor throw down their arms.
Now look here, my lad; you are young and naturally shrink from shedding
blood, but this is no time for being squeamish. You are not going to
fight against ordinary human beings, but against a set of fiends who
live by robbery and the murder of their victims--men, women, and
innocent children."
Stan was silent for a few moments, and in that short period his face
grew so lined that he looked years older.
"Is this perfectly true, Mr Blunt?" he said at last in a husky voice
that did not sound like his own.
"On my word as a man who is about to stand up and face death, and may
before an hour is over be lying on his back with his dead eyes gazing
straight up beyond the clouds. You hear me?"
"Yes," said Stan firmly.
"And you'll do your best for the sake of those who would be ready to
encourage you if they were here, for our sake, and for your own?"
"Yes, I'm quite ready now," replied Stan firmly.
"That's right. Then shake hands, my lad."
"What for?" asked Stan.
"Because," was the reply, given in a grave, solemn tone, "we may never
have the chance again."
"You think it is as bad as that?"
"Quite," was the reply as hand pressed hand. "There! we shall be at it
soon, and I'm sorry, Lynn. When you first came I thought I should
always detest you as a young meddler sent here to be in my way."
"But you don't think so now?" said Stan, smiling.
"Quite the contrary, my lad. There! we've talked enough. Only one word
or so more. Keep cool, load steadily, and fire only when you feel sure
of your man. Never hurry. Recollect that one carefully taken shot is
worth a score of bad ones, which mean so much waste of ammunition.
There! I'm off now to talk to the rest. I'll come and be with you as
much as I can."
"Thank you; but I can see what you have done. You've put me in one of
the best-sheltered places, and you are going to expose yourself in the
most dangerous."
"You are only partly right, my lad. I have not put you in one of the
best-sheltered places, but I am going to expose myself in one of the
worst as much as I can, and that is here--the place where I have
stationed you."
Stan's next words slipped out unconsciously:
"Why have you put me in the most risky place?"
"Because I saw that you liked shooting since you brought your gun and
revolver, and I gathered so, too, from your conversation and the way in
which you handled that rifle. Now are you satisfied?"
Stan nodded, and the next minute he was alone, but with men at all the
loopholes near.
As soon as he was left to himself a peculiar chill came creeping over
him. Blunt's words seemed to be ringing in his ears about being face to
face with death, and in imagination he pictured the aspect of his newly
made friend lying stark and stiff gazing up into the skies. He would
have given anything in those brief minutes to have seen him come back,
not to act as a shield from the firing too soon to begin, but so as to
have his companionship; for, near though the others were, the little
bastion seemed to be horribly lonely, and the silence about the great
warehouse too oppressive to bear.
But as the boy--for he was a mere boy after all--stood at the opening
with his hand grasping the barrel of the rifle whose butt rested between
his feet, and gazing out at the glittering river, his image-forming
thoughts became blurred; the figure of Blunt passed away, and another
picture formed itself upon the retina of his eyes. There before him
were the smoking ruins of a native village, and, so horribly distinct
that he shuddered and turned cold again, there lay in all directions and
attitudes the slaughtered victims of the pirates' attack, and all so
ghastly that the lad uttered a peculiar sibilant sound as he sharply
drew in his breath between his teeth.
The next instant the chill of horror had been swept away with the
imaginary picture--imaginary, but too often real in a country where the
teeming population hold human life to be cheap as the dirt beneath their
feet--and Stan, with his brows knit, was carefully cocking and uncocking
his rifle to see if the mechanism worked accurately, before throwing
open the breech to take out and replace the cartridge, when he closed it
smartly and looked out at the coming junks, which glided nearer and
nearer like fate.
They were so nearly within ken now that Stan could see that they were
crowded with men, each a desperate and savage enemy.
"I wonder whether I can hit the first one who takes aim at me. I must
or he'll hit me," muttered the lad. "But I shall have to be quick or he
may hit me first."
He had hardly dwelt a moment upon this thought before he heard Blunt's
voice in the long, narrow opening between the tea-chest wall and the
buildings proper of house, offices, and stores, where the soft,
shuffling sounds of feet could be plainly heard--sounds which Stan, who
had been long enough in China to recognise them, knew to be caused by
the collecting of the coolies.
Proof was afforded the next minute by Blunt's brisk voice addressing
them with--
"Now, my lads, I want you to fight your best for us. How many of you
can manage rifles?"
There was a few moments' silence, and then a deep voice said:
"No wantee lifle. Takee big ilon clowba', sha'p chip-chop knifee. Kill
allee pilate, evely one."
"That will do. Wait, then, till the wretches rush in, and then use the
bars and your knives. I see you mean to fight."
There was further shuffling of soft feet, and though he could see
nothing, Stan knew that the big picked Chinamen, whose muscles were
hardened by their tasks of handling and running to and fro over gangways
with heavy bales, casks, and chests, were being posted in places of
vantage ready to receive the enemy when they landed at the wharf and
made their first onslaught.
Stan turned to watch the junks, whose sails were now lowered as
unnecessary and stowed lengthwise to be out of the way, while great
sweeps had been passed out, not to urge on the vessels, but to keep a
little way on and make them answer the steering-gear, the force of the
current being enough for the enemy's purpose, which was to lay them
alongside the wharf after--as was proved ere long--a sharp discharge
from their clumsy artillery.
"How long they seem in coming!" thought Stan, though in reality the time
was very short; and then he started, for Blunt had come close up behind
him unperceived.
"Here I am," he said. "We are all ready, and our people are waiting for
you to open the ball."
"For me?" cried Stan, who felt startled.
"You. You will fire the first shot when I give the word. That will be
the signal that I consider the enemy sufficiently close, and the men
will begin picking the wretches off. I say, look; clumsy as the great
craft seem, they come on very steadily and well. There is no confusion.
See what a line they keep of about a couple of hundred yards apart.
Their captains are not bad sailors after all."
"Yes, they come on slowly and surely," said Stan in a sombre tone.--"I
wish I didn't feel so nervous."
"It's quite natural," said Blunt. "I feel just as bad as you."
"You do?" cried Stan, staring. "Nonsense!"
"Indeed I do," said Blunt. "I'm in what schoolboys call a regular stew.
Every one in the place feels the same, I'll venture to say. It's
really quite natural; but as soon as the game begins--"
"Game!" cried Stan bitterly.
"Oh, very well; drama, if you like. I say as soon as it begins we shall
all be too busy to feel fear, and be working away like Britons. Here,
it's going to begin sooner than I expected. By your leave, as the
porters say, I want a look through my glass. Yes," he continued as he
carefully scanned the leading junk, "they've got a big brass swivel-gun
there, and they're loading it. How's your rifle sighted now?"
"For two hundred yards."
"That will do nicely. You shall have a shot soon. But they're going to
let us have it. Keep well in cover. I hope the lads are all doing the
same."
"Yes, they're going to begin," said Stan excitedly. "Bravo, good eyes!
How do you know?"
"Because I can see a man going along the deck with something smoking."
"That's right. Yes: I can see it. It's the linstock or slow-match.
Keep under cover, for we shall have a hail of ragged bullets of all
kinds directly. They've laid the gun, and the man is waiting to apply
the match."
"Yes: I can see that too. Look out: here it comes. I saw the smoke
seem to make a dart downwards."
"Quite right; and I can see with the glass that the burning end is
resting on the touch-hole."
"But it doesn't go off," said Stan excitedly.
"No; the priming must have been knocked off, or be damp or badly made.
It's a failure, certainly. There! I wish you could see with the glass;
it's all as clear as if it was close to us. One of the men close to the
breech of the long piece is priming it again."
"I can't see that--only that the men are busy," said Stan as the great
leading junk, with its leering eyes, glided onward till it was somewhere
about a hundred and fifty yards from the wharf and being swept closer
inshore. "Now then," cried Stan; "look out!"
For he could just distinguish the downward movement of the smoking
match, which was followed directly after by a couple of puffs of smoke,
one small from the breech, the other large and spreading, followed by a
bellowing roar, almost following a strange rattling and crash as of
stones about the face and surface of the wharf. There was a dull
pattering, too, over the head of the watchers, and dust and scraps of
stones ran down the front of the building.
Stan made some remark, but it was drowned by a deafening roar--nothing
to do with barbaric artillery, but coming from the throats of hundreds
of men, beginning with those in the first junk, right along from those
which followed, to the very last; and to make the sounds more
ear-stunning, men began belabouring gongs in every junk with all their
muscle brought to bear.
"Nice row that, Lynn," said the manager coolly. "Just shows what fools
these barbarians are. Of course, you know why they beat these gongs?"
"To frighten us, I suppose," said Stan.
"That's it; and I don't feel a bit alarmed. Do you?"
"Pooh! No; but I did feel scared when the charge of that big swivel-gun
came rattling about us."
"Yes, and with reason, too," said Blunt quietly. "Their ragged bits of
lead and scraps of iron make horribly painful wounds. I don't want to
get a touch of that sort of thing."
The moment the booming of the gongs ceased, Blunt drew back and shouted
to know if any one had been hurt by the discharge of the great swivel;
but though he waited and called again, he had good proof in the silence
that no one was injured.
"Do you hear there?" he cried again. "Is any one--"
His words were drowned by a roar from the enemy's gun, almost
accompanied by the snarl-like noise made by its great charge, which came
hurtling against the chests and bales this time, though a good half
spattered angrily over the front of the stones.
"We mustn't let them have it all their own way, Lynn, my lad, or they'll
come on with a rush full of confidence and do too much mischief. Now
then, the distance is easy. Look yonder in the front of the junk: what
can you see?"
"Two men pulling out the rammer of the long swivel-gun, and another
pointing it, as it seems to me, exactly at this loophole."
"I don't believe he is, my lad, but it looks like it."
"Now he's taking the--linstock--don't you call it?--from the man who is
holding it, and is going to fire."
"Don't let him," said Blunt sharply. "Take aim. Ready? Fire!"
In obedience to his companion's orders, Stan had dropped on one knee,
taken a long and careful aim, and then drew trigger.
For a few moments the soft grey smoke hung before the lad's eyes and hid
what was going on; but he did not waste time. Throwing out the empty
cartridge, he began to fit in another, and as with trembling fingers he
reclosed the breech he whispered sharply:
"Did I hit?"
"I fancy so; the man sprang up in the air and fell backwards. You've no
time to look, so take it from me. They are carrying the man away."
Stan drew in his breath with a hissing sound, but no time was given him
to think of what he had done, for Blunt's voice made him start, as he
was bending over him.
"Loaded?" he said.
"Yes."
"Take aim, then, at that man with the match. He is shifting the gun a
little to allow for the distance the junk has floated with the stream."
"Yes; I see."
"Let him have it, then. Sharp! He must not fire that piece."
Stan's rifle rang out, and the Chinaman dropped behind the high bulwark
and was seen no more.
"Load again, stupid!" cried Blunt, for Stan half-knelt behind the
opening from which he had aimed, looking stunned and motionless,
impressed as he was by his terrible success. But he started into active
life again under the spur of his companion's fierce words.
"Keep on firing slowly and steadily, Lynn," said Blunt in tones which
made the lad feel that he must obey, though the compunction was dying
and he knew how necessary it was to render the big piece useless by
checking the efforts of the gunners.
He fired again just in the nick of time, and the man who now held the
linstock dropped it and stood gesticulating to his companions.
"You've missed him, Lynn," said Blunt angrily. "Look! he has picked it
up again."
Stan needed no telling that he had only startled the gunner by sending a
bullet close to his head, and before he could fire again a puff of smoke
darted from the mouth of the piece, and Blunt struck him sharply across
the back, spoiling his aim so that the bullet from his rifle went
anywhere.
"Why did you do that?" he cried sharply, for the blow stirred him into
making an angry retort, as he gazed through the smoke at his comrade.
"I've done the best I could. I'm not used to this sort of--Why--what--
Mr Blunt!" he cried, as he saw a peculiar look in the manager's face,
and that he was leaning sideways against the wall of bales. "Oh! you're
hurt!"
The manager tightened his lips and nodded sharply before letting himself
subside, gliding down half-resting against the defensive building, and
saving himself from falling headlong in his faintness.
"Here," cried Stan, letting his rifle rest on the top of the bale from
which he had fired, "let me bind up the wound. Where are you hurt?"
"Hah!" exclaimed Blunt, as if mastering a spasm of pain. "Never mind
me. Go on firing, my lad. Don't you see how close they are in? Fire
away, and shout to the others to keep it up. Stop them from loading if
you can; it may scare the next junk from coming on.--Ah, that's better!"
For the sounds he heard were pleasant to his ears. There was no need
for Stan to shout, and he took up his rifle again in obedience to his
orders and went on aiming at the men on the junk who seemed to be most
prominent. Firing was going on all around, and from the upper windows
of the warehouse as well, the consequence being that the men at the
sweeps fell one by one; and then the two men handling the huge
steering-oar dropped away, with the result that, instead of the great
junk being laid alongside of the wharf for the pirates crowding her to
leap ashore, they were carried on down-stream, with her captain and
officers raging frantically, till the chief man received a bullet
through one of his upraised arms and sank back into the arms of a
subordinate.